


Tartan (or Where the Lines Overlap)

by Nightlightinthedark



Category: Good Omens
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confession, M/M, Repression, Slow Burn, Tartan, Textiles - Freeform, after they dined at the ritz, ineffable husbands, it’s so fluffy imma die, tale as old as time burn as slow as f-&!, why Aziraphale is so mad for tartan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 12:22:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19974010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightlightinthedark/pseuds/Nightlightinthedark
Summary: Ficlet written in response to an ‘ask’/prompt on tumblr: “Why is Aziraphale so mad for tartan and has been for so long? It has to tie back to Crowley somehow.”Aziraphale startled a bit as the cork popped. This certainly wasn’t the first time Crowley had mentioned Aziraphale’s undying adoration of this particular textile. In fact, just earlier today, after they had switched back into their own corporations, Crowley had said, “tartan collar—really?” and Aziraphale had played it off quickly and easily— “tartan is stylish!” And it is, Aziraphale thought, and soon they were dining at the Ritz and toasting to the world and he hadn’t given it another thought.But this. This was a direct question. And strangely, unreasonably, the heart within his corporation jumped and pounded wildly upon hearing it spoken by the demon. My demon, a voice from somewhere darker and tangled in his chest uttered, but he strangled it before it had the chance to untangle itself and do something foolish, like find it’s way out through his mouth.





	Tartan (or Where the Lines Overlap)

“S’what’s with you and tartan, anywayss?” Crowley’s voice echoed from the other room, where he was seated (no—elegantly slumped) on Aziraphale’s sofa, glass in hand, whilst around the corner, Aziraphale opened yet another bottle of wine. (This one was a particularly impeccable bottle of red, a Chateau Montelena Cab. Not that it mattered one iota at this point; both angel and demon were having trouble speaking clearly). 

Aziraphale startled a bit as the cork popped. This certainly wasn’t the first time Crowley had mentioned Aziraphale’s undying adoration of this particular textile. In fact, just earlier today, after they had switched back into their own corporations, Crowley had said, “tartan collar—really?” and Aziraphale had played it off quickly and easily— “tartan is stylish!” And it is, Aziraphale thought, and soon they were dining at the Ritz and toasting to the world and he hadn’t given it another thought. 

But this. This was a direct question. And strangely, unreasonably, the heart within his corporation jumped and pounded wildly upon hearing it spoken by the demon. _My demon_ , a voice from somewhere darker and tangled in his chest uttered, but he strangled it before it had the chance to untangle itself and do something foolish, like find it’s way out through his mouth. 

Because Aziraphale knew the answer, of course. He’d known, vaguely, since the first time he’d seen tartan, somewhere in Scotland around the 16th century. And now he knew it acutely. In fact, he couldn’t put on his tartan-collared waistcoat, or see a tartan kilt on someone in the street, or carefully fold his tartan blanket (still warm, he thought) which Crowley had left, haphazardly strewn across the couch after he tossed it off upon waking from a long nap… 

“Aziraphale?” The edge of concern in Crowley’s voice snaked around the corner and jolted Aziraphale back into reality. He gripped the bottle of wine and started toward the back room.

“Sorry, my dear. Rather slos… lots…  _ lost  _ in my thoughts for ‘moment.” He carefully topped off Crowley’s glass. “What was that?”

Crowley’s long fingers danced over the tartan blanket draped over the back of the sofa. “You love tartan… why? ‘Cause I can figure a  _ lot  _ out about you, angel”—and here, Aziraphale’s face went hot as Crowley spoke—“but never thisss sstupid obsssession. No offense, but it’s  _ ghastly.  _ Stripes!” Crowley really was snockered. He gesticulated wildly. “Stripes, sssuuure! Try some, you know, vertizont… horti… I’unno, wear some regular stripes sssometime.”

Aziraphale sat in the chair opposite Crowley, rather wishing he were sober; but no, that wouldn’t do either. Best to have the shield of inebriation on one’s side.

“Well…” Aziraphale set down the bottle and folded his hands primly together. “It reminds me…”

Crowley’s glasses were off, making it all the harder. Those eyes.

“...of you.”

Crowley’s teasing smile morphed into an open-mouthed look of surprise, not unlike the look he had, Aziraphale thought, when, the day they’d met, Aziraphale had admitted to giving away the flaming sword. But now, there was something less wistful, and more serious, in them. 

The silence was unbearable.

“Tartan… reminds you... of  _ me?”  _ Crowley regained a bit of his swagger now. “S’hardly my style, angel.” He swung his impossibly gangly legs up and onto the sofa. “S’what, I’ve got flamin’ hair, so I’m a Scottish demon’r sssomething like that?” 

Aziraphale anxiously twisted the ring around his pinky. “No.. not… s’not that, Crowley.” 

Over the past 6,000 years, there had been openings. Little spaces, like the fleeting space between train cars as a train rushes past, where Aziraphale could have told Crowley how he felt about him. How much their friendship meant to him. How he couldn’t imagine spending so much time with anyone else. How greatly he loved him; greater than anything he’d ever known. 

So many openings. One such opening was in 1941, standing in the rubble of a bombed church, holding a bag of books. But the trains move fast, and Aziraphale never could summon the courage to try and jump through that space. So each small opening passed, acknowledged but unattended, and Aziraphale never did say the words. 

This time, as Crowley ran a hand through his strawberry hair, Aziraphale eyed the opening. And (clumsily) lept.

“No. I… I said it wrong. What I meant was… tartan reminds me  _ of us.”  _

Crowley turned toward Aziraphale, eyebrows raised quizzically. “Come again?” 

Aziraphale stood up and walked over to the couch, gingerly sitting down next to Crowley’s outstretched legs, the feeling of an accidental brush of hand-to-knee causing a curious, prickly sensation across Aziraphale’s skin. 

“The _ lines _ .” Aziraphale said it so emphatically that if Crowley hadn’t suspected that he was trying to say something important, he would have burst out laughing. Taking Crowley’s glass from his hand, Aziraphale drank from it heavily, then set it on the floor before starting again. 

“This lovely woman ran a stand in Cardiff, selling tartan. I used to visit her…” 

“You’ve told me about her before,” Crowley interrupted. 

“Yes, well… I’ve never told you what she told me about making tartan.” His eyes looked past Crowley and into the 16th century market where he stopped to chat with an older woman standing amongst heaps of colorful fabric. 

“She was always smiling. I asked her why she enjoyed making tartan… it was so.. beautiful… and she said, ‘because where the thread in the warp crosses over the thread in the weft, a new color is made.” Aziraphale reached over Crowley’s legs and pulled the tartan blanket over to illustrate. “Here. Where the red and blue make purple…” Suddenly, gesturing clumsily at the blanket on his lap, Aziraphale felt stupid and mortified and didn’t make sense to himself, when Crowley’s hand appeared and rested carefully, deliberately, over his. 

Aziraphale’s breath hitched and he looked up, confronted with Crowley’s enormous golden eyes, wide with knowing. “That’s us,” Crowley’s voice choked out, all too low and quiet and making the core of Aziraphale shimmer. 

“Y-yes. Right angles. Lines… overla—“

And in one quick motion, Crowley pulled himself up and closed the space between them, and their lips met. 

Some time later, when the two colors managed to pull away from each other, Aziraphale loosening his collar, Crowley brushing the hair from his face, one of them mentioned that they really preferred overlapping, and they crashed back together until worried customers outside banged on the door so loudly that Aziraphale had to get up to flip the sign to ‘CLOSED’.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Soooo I was really hesitant to write this because this is my FIRST FIC EVER and I’m super insecure about it (and anything I create in general). Hope someone enjoyed this. Feedback is appreciated!


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